


Not from the Heart Beneath

by spiderlily



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderlily/pseuds/spiderlily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loosely inspired by Frances Hodgson Burnett’s “The Secret Garden”.</p>
<p>Young John Watson, orphaned in India, returns to England to live with his forbidding Aunt on her property in the Yorkshire moors. Here he meets his mad cousin for the first time.</p>
<p>AU - Edwardian era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_1903_  
  
As a child growing up in India, John Watson had wanted to be a Maharaja. His Ayah often told him stories of the Great Kings in an age doused deep in myth and shrouded in mystery, long before Englishmen had come upon it’s redolent shores. John would paint himself blue, wrap colorful silk scarves on his heads in the shape of a lopsided turban and brandish his toy _khanda_ sword and the native servants would all laugh and tell him how brave and strong he looked.  
  
His sister Harriet, sitting nearby, would scowl and continue to slowly but methodically cut the long hair off her dolls. When he came over to beg her to play with him she would call him stupid and a baby and he would kick her and she would kick him back and before they knew it they would be rolling around in a heap of elbows, shins and hair with the servants flapping around them, making shrill noises of distress, until their mother would come and she would laugh and pull John into her lap and say, “Look at my brave little soldier boy, is he not the sweetest little boy in the world?” And Harriet would scowl again and run away and John would feel funny and squirm until he got free. He’d go after Harriet and follow her heels like a determined puppy, ignoring her snappish requests that he go away, until she would relent and pull his ears and tell him to race her down the stairs and run off before he had a chance to react.  
  
It was true in a way what his mother had said. Other people than her had said so. Every night his mother would throw a grand dinner party and Harriet and John would be paraded in, wearing their best clothes, and for ten to fifteen minutes the ladies would coo and fuss over them. Harriet, older and wiser, was not fooled and refused to be pleased, but John was only embarrassed at their effusive compliments about his beautiful golden hair, bright blue eyes and beautiful manners because he was a naturally good-natured boy with a keen desire to please that demanded nothing in return.  
  
After the requisite fifteen minutes their mother would turn them back to their Ayah who would usher them away. John would linger on the stairs for a while longer to look at the glittering spectacle they made; the candles and the bright silverware, the light on the beautiful dresses and jewellery of the coquettish ladies, the sharp waistcoats and handsome red uniforms of the gallant gentlemen. They seemed like birds of paradise, floating in a sea of orchestra music. He would feel queer and lonely and not know why.  
  
John’s father however was rarely there. He was rarely anywhere to be seen and that perhaps was the beginning of the problem. A shy and retiring military man of minor importance in the English Government, he had met and soon after married a lady to whom he was barely acquainted and was the very epitome of all that he was not; beautiful and gay and fond of company. Perhaps in some way he had hoped she might fill a gap he was aware existed within him. But people’s natures are difficult to change and once the initial passion and mystery of the marriage wore off, he found as he often did before, that he much preferred the company of his men and the simple but rewarding joy of paperwork and drills. As for her, she had barely known anything of her husband, instead being swept away by her own fantasies of being a soldier’s wife and living abroad in an exotic land. Once she arrived however she found that she was lonely and bored. Disenchanted with her marriage she quickly she surrounded herself with people of a like mind, her marriage had given her a status and money if not much else, and spent all her time trying to amuse herself. Having children had not cured her of her selfishness. In fact it seemed only to make it worse. Harriet she dismissed early on on account of her resembling her husband, but John perhaps she cared for a little but only because his blonde curls and blue eyes were all things he had inherited from her and she loved herself above all other things in the world.  
  
One day when John was nine, his father came home abruptly one day and said, “It has come Elaine as I had feared. You are not to throw any more parties. You must shut up the house, live like a nun, and not go out until it is all over.”  
  
John’s mother said angrily, “It is your fault you have brought me to this horrid place and now you must deny me my one delight? It is only a servant who has died, such alarm is hardly necessary.”  
  
“Elaine don’t be a fool! You will obey me in this matter, for the children’s sake if not your own.”  
  
“Well then where are you to be? Are you to remain here at home with me?”  
  
“No I have business to attend in the barracks. I entrust this house to you and I trust you will do your duty as my wife.”  
  
It was precisely the wrong thing to say. John had been standing by the door with wooden soldiers he had just bought. “Father!” He perked up eagerly but Major Watson only said. “Be a good boy now John”, patted him on the head in an awkward but not unloving sort of way and was gone. Afterwards John’s mother flew in a rage and all the servants stayed away from her, gossiping in a corner, and Harriet put a pillow over her head and said she wished she was dead.  
  
When it was dark however John crept into Elaine’s bedroom to see if she was feeling better since his Ayah had told him she was feeling low. But she wasn’t there. Her window was open however and when he went over to it he saw her standing in the garden with a fair-headed young officer he had seen often before at dinner parties. Their hands were pressed together and presently they opened the back gate and were giggling as they ran into a waiting carriage. John was glad that she was feeling better, curious as to where she was going, and presently went back to sleep.  
  
The next morning was muggy and hot and when John awoke a woman he didn’t know was standing next to him. She was pale and looked frightened and John asked her where his Ayah was. The woman only stammered in distress that Ayah could not come to see Mr John and that she was sorry and didn’t know more. But when John went outside he saw that the rooms were in disarray and many of the servants were gone. He said he wanted to see his mother and the woman said he couldn’t do that either and he kept asking for her until Harriet found him and told him, “She’s run away with a man. She doesn’t want us any more.”  
  
“What do you mean?” John asked. “Where’s she gone? When’s she coming back?”  
  
“She’s never coming back!” Harriet said in a shrill voice.  
  
“I don’t believe you.” John declared. “You’re lying.”  
  
Harriet shrieked, slapped him then burst into tears. John sat there with his hand on his cheek, shocked while all around the servants whispered that perhaps they should be leaving because the Ayah was ill and they all knew what it was and they only wanted their pay but the Mistress was gone so perhaps they should cut their losses and just be away now before the Master returned in a rage or anything worse could happen.  
  
The truth was that Elaine Watson probably hadn’t intended on leaving forever. If she had she might have at least left a note for her children. Likely she only meant to run away for a few days to punish her husband for what she saw as his cruelty to her. But when she was found delirious and ill only two houses away a few days later, the overworked staff at the hospital barely knew who she was. The man she was with was dead and after she died too the nurse on duty that evening assumed she was his wife and so for a long time she was buried under that name until John came looking for her many years later and solved the mystery. By that time he was very good at solving mysteries, but that is is another story for another time.  
  
Right now John is a frightened boy of nine and Harriet and he have been locked in a bedroom by the fleeing servants. This might sound cruel but it was in actual fact a final act of charity. The servants had put food and water in the room for them and warned them not to go outside. A note had been sent to the children’s father to come and collect them, and they were not to know that the cholera had broken out among the barracks too and Major Watson among the fallen.  
  
So it was that John and Harriet sat in the room for many days, too frightened to go out, passing the time by telling each other stories and amusing each other until at last one day, starved with hunger, they heard the sound of adult footsteps in the house again. Harriet hesitated but John banged on the door and called “Help!” and she soon joined in. The footsteps grew quicker and the sound of voices was raised in alarm and soon after much banging and yelling, the door was broken down. A large officer that John had once seen before with his father said, “Here they are! I’ve found them. They’re not dead after all. If only I had seen that blasted note sooner.”  
  
And so it was that John and Harriet survived the cholera that killed their parents and were alone in the world but for each other. They had no reason to remain in India but had to do so for a few more months while the big officer sorted things out, and the post was not very fast in those days and he was very busy with funerals and other arrangements. John when he discovered his father was dead and his mother missing, spent many nights crying. Harriet didn’t cry at all but sat at her window and stared, dark-eyed, out into the teeming streets. She was determined to be the strong one, to show she was not weak and soppy like John. After a few weeks however the big officer’s wife pulled Harriet on her lap, and braided her hair and said, “What a sweet little girl you are!” and big, traitorous tears rolled out of Harriet’s eyes and to the officer’s wife’s distress she began bawling and throwing things and no amount of entreaty or bribes could stop her tantrum. At that time John came running into the room and after staring wide-eyed at his older sister for a few minutes, he suddenly reached up and put his round, strong arms around her and said, “It’s okay Harry. You’ve got me. I’m going to protect you from now on.”  
  
Harry screamed and bawled and lashed out blindly but John held on as tight as his small arms with allow and eventually she quietened down and he knew they were going to be All Right.  
  
A few months later the big officer got a letter from England. Major Watson’s lawyer had been contacted and he had put in extensive enquiries. It seemed the only other Watson relation was Major Watson’s half sister from his mother’s first marriage. The woman was now a widow, exceedingly wealthy, and was living in Yorkshire. It would have been an ideal situation however she had unequivocally refused to take the children so the lawyer had been forced to look elsewhere. He identified that Elaine had a sister living in Suffolk who had a son and had always longed for a daughter. She would be glad to take Harriet, but only Harriet for her husband was fond of quiet and besides she already had her own sweet little boy. The lawyer then spent much time making further enquiries but his search was fruitless and at last he returned to the widow Holmes and wrote her an epithet, reminding her of her duty before God to her dead brother. He received a single line response, _If God Wills It_ and took this as the positive answer he had been seeking.  
  
So it was that three months later John and Harriet made the long voyage back to England and were at the port parted. Keenly aware they were to be set adrift alone in a land they barely remembered and in which they knew nobody else, they pressed hands together and promised to visit each other soon. Elaine’s sister had come to collect Harriet herself and John was disappointed to see she looked nothing like their mother. She said some polite, civil things to John but was in a hurry to be away for she had her own son to think about and soon John found himself looking at the side of Harriet’s face as she craned as far out of the window as far as she could without falling out, the carriage taking her far away from him.  
  
“Goodbye!” He called. She couldn’t hear him but she saw his mouth move and waved in response.  
  
The woman who had been sent to collect him he had at first mistaken for his Aunt but she had laughed merrily when he called her that and said, “My word! What a dear you are, you’ve mistaken me for Lady Holmes! You won’t make that mistake again, not after you’ve seen her. No I’m Mrs Hudson and I’m the housekeeper at Pencarrow Hall.”  
  
“I am very glad to make your acquaintance.” John told him because that was the proper thing to say. Mrs Hudson beamed, “What a nice boy you are. What a pleasant change from-” Here she stopped. John looked at her curiously but she only muttered something to herself under her breath. It sounded like; _Now then! You nearly put your foot in it again and you the housekeeper as well!_  
  
The journey to Yorkshire took some time. It was late evening by the time the carriage rolled up the moors and Pencarrow Hall came into view. John had been sleepily staring across the rolling mists and vast, dark mossy hills, feeling very odd in this cold and lonely place, for he had become accustomed to the heat and bustle of Calcutta. When the carriage navigated a bend in the road and Mrs Hudson pointed out the house in the distance, John suddenly opened his eyes wide and plastered his face against the window. Pencarrow had been built sometime during the Norman invasion of 1066 and the chevron patterns of its brickwork, it’s towers and turrets, the Romanesque arches over the doors and windows, and the sheer immensity of it’s size was a testament to those olden days. John who had been expecting something altogether different and similar to his house in India turned to Mrs Hudson and said, “Why do you call it Pencarrow _Hall?_ It should be called Pencarrow Castle!” And Mrs Hudson laughed out loud.  
  
“Well it’s a grand old thing.” Mrs Hudson said. “Nearly a thousand years old and so staid and sturdy still, especially in this wild place. A hundred rooms and lots of gardens all around it, it’s such a trial keeping it all in order. Especially since there’s nothing else around here on the moors.”  
  
 _Staid and sturdy_ were not the words John would have used to describe it. It seemed like something out of a Shakesperean tragedy and staring at it was quite overwhelming. John was not cowed however, perhaps it was the colonial spirit in him, and he stared up unabashed at the looming grim spectacle of the place and did not take his eyes off it until they reached it’s steel wrought gates and were admitted. Inside the front gardens had been carefully managed and John’s attention was wrested to a tall and ancient oak tree standing in the front surrounded by a low cobblestone wall. There were many markings on the tree, small scratches with knives, like a secret code among children. He immediately asked eagerly, “Are there any boys living here?”  
  
Mrs Hudson said, “Well,” and then in the tone that sing-song tone adults adopt when they are lying to children, “There’s Mycroft but he’s quite a bit older than you and he’s away at school now.”  
  
“Oh.” John said, disappointed. “Are there no other children?”  
  
Mrs Hudson said “Well,” again and followed it up with, “I suppose Gregory is around your age, perhaps a little bit older. He’s Molly’s cousin, Molly is the youngest maid in the house and Greg helps out in the garden.”  
  
“Oh good.” John said. “I like gardening. My Ayah helped me plant a vegetable garden in India. We had capsicum and pumpkins. Perhaps Greg can help me plant one here.” 

They’d driven up to the main house now. The front double door of Pencarrow was tall and made of thick wood, arched in shape, sitting under a stone archway. It was almost double John’s height and the round brass door knocker was shaped under a carved lion’s head. As he disembarked John saw that a retinue of servants were standing outside in a neat line.  
  
Mrs Hudson laughed again. “Goodness gracious you won’t be allowed out to play with the servants. Lady Holmes wouldn’t stand for it, she’s very particular about these things.”  
  
“Why not?” He asked. “And what are all these people standing outside for? Aren’t they cold?”  
  
“Oh no doubt they are. But they are standing here to greet you Master John because you are the nephew of Lady Holmes.”  
  
This did not answer the question in John’s mind but he was glad to see their smiling faces for it seemed that the house was grim enough on it's own. He did not know that most of them only smiled because it was their duty to do so and were in actual fact dreading the addition of another child in the house. The one they had within it’s great walls was a terrible trial enough.  
  
“Hullo!” John said cheerily as he often did to his mother’s friends. “How nice of you to wait out here in the cold for me. I’m John.”  
  
They didn’t say anything but looked at each other and presently John found a girl among them, younger than the others at fourteen, with a pretty, pointed face and mousy brown hair. She had a nervous air about her which doubled in intensity as he stopped in front of her and peered up at her.  
  
“Is there something I can help you with Master John?” She asked tremulously.  
  
“Are you Molly?”  
  
“How did you know- oh I mean, yes Master John.”  
  
“I have heard you have a cousin a little older than me. I see he’s not here. I should dearly like to meet him. I suppose it is too late tonight but tomorrow can you introduce me? I would be much obliged.”  
  
Molly flushed red with embarrassment, unsure of how to respond. People murmured around them and mortified, she squeaked out, “that would be- nice.” An older maid standing beside her gave her a venomous look and she knew she had said the wrong thing.  
  
John didn’t realize it however and Mrs Hudson came back after speaking to the butler. “Your aunt would like to see you right away. Come along dear.”  
  
They passed the grand archway into the main house. John looked about him curiously. Inside was a vast receiving room with a tall ceiling leading to two rooms, one on either side, and in the centre was a huge spiral wooden staircase. It was only dimly lit by ornate wall lamps scattered about the place. That combined with the darkness outside the windows gave it a sombre and oppressive air. As Mrs Hudson lead John up the stairs, he saw painted murals on the ceiling and on the walls but could barely make out the faces on the people.  
  
The staircase led to a long corridor. Mrs Hudson look the one leading to the right and the wooden floorboards creaked under John’s feet. There were many large paintings lining the corridor, each in it’s own gilded frame. John stared up at it curiously. Old men, young men, old women, young women. Dogs. Each of them wore a unsmiling, serious expression.  
  
“Here.” Mrs Hudson said. She had opened the doors and was waiting for him.  
  
“Aren’t you coming in with me?” John asked.  
  
Mrs Hudson clicked her tongue. “No dearie, she wanted to see you alone. Quite specific about it. In you go, it’s all right. She won’t eat you- much.” Mrs Hudson laughed here. Not very reassured John stepped over the threshold. It he had thought the corridor not well lit, then it was positively dark in here. He could just make out the shadows of the ornate, French-style furniture from the glow of blazing fireplace. There was a woman’s head sitting with it’s back to him on a long couch. The light from the fireplace revealed her hair was silver-white. Her wrinkled hand was draped over the side and rested on the head of an enormous golden bloodhound which raised it’s head and haunches as John came in.  
  
John stood around uncertainly.  
  
“Well don’t just stand there like an idiot,” Came an acidic voice, cutting through the darkness. “Come closer, boy.”  
  
John walked closer, keeping a close eye on the bloodhound which followed him with it’s great dark eyes. He liked dogs but he hadn’t ever met one this big before. It looked rather like a small horse. He walked a wide arc around the dog and came to stand in front of the fire, facing the old woman. She was not very tall but she sat very straight, her chin raised high as if she were six feet tall. Her silver hair had been teased into a horseshoe shape around her thin, sharp face and not a strand was out of place. She wore a heavy maroon dress and though John knew nothing about fashion, he could tell it wasn’t the long, slinky, shining things that his mother and her friends liked to wear; it was something out of an older, ancient time. A choker of heavy green jewels lay around her wrinkled neck. Her eyes, glittering and dark, observed him.  
  
“You look nothing like him at all.” She said. John didn’t know know how to respond to that but she didn’t give him a chance, continuing, “I suppose it is from your frivolous,  puerile mother that you’ve inherited your brazen colouring.” She flicked her fingers in the air to emphasize the statement.  
  
Her sentence had too many words in it that John didn’t understand but he understood the connotation. He went red and said heatedly, “Don’t say bad things about my mother!”  
  
“Loyalty.” She sniffed. “How plebeian. I suppose your mother loved you then, held you close her cheek, swung you in her arms, called you her _darling_. Well we won’t have any of that here. Children should be seen but not heard, you have heard of the old adage I hope John? Although I would prefer not to see you as well if possible. You are going splotchy. Do you understand what I am staying?”  
  
John’s nose was getting red. He breathed through his mouth, determined not to cry. “Yes Aunt.”  
  
“And don’t call me Aunt. It’s dreadfully plebeian just like the rest of you. Address me as “Lady Holmes”. God has seen fit to send you here John and I will obey his commands. You shall have all that you require but do not expect any kindness from me. It’s not in my nature. Now get out.”  
  
John shuffled out. He stood as straight as he could until the doors were closed behind him and then he started to cry. Mrs Hudson was there and she tutted sympathetically and lead him away. “There, there. I’ll show you to your room. You musn’t let her upset you. She treats everybody like that. It’ll be all right, you’ll see.”  
  
“But why is she so _mean_?” John burst out.

“She wasn’t always like that.” Mrs Hudson said thoughtfully. “I remember when I first came to the house and Lord Holmes was still alive. Never have I seen two people more in love. This house used to be full of laughter. But circumstances change you understand, dearie. And there’s been a lot of tragedy in her life.”  
  
“There’s been a lot of tragedy in my life too.” John pointed out.  
  
Mrs Hudson had opened the door to John’s room which was on the other end of the corridor, then down another flight of stairs, into another wing of the house. When she opened the door John found the room was musty and smelled funny but at least a warm fire had been lit in the fireplace. There was nothing else in the room but a large four poster bed with sombre dark green bedding that looked like a very fat, old man had been the last one to sleep in it and an ornately carved, wooden chest at the foot of the bed. What remained of John’s things had been put into it.  
  
“Yes that is true isn’t it?” Mrs Hudson said in a reflective tone. John went over to the bed and he sat on it, realizing that he felt exhausted. And sad. And lonely. He lay down and buried is face in the musty sheets.  
  
“I shan’t ever been mean like that. No matter what happens to me.” He declared, his voice muffled by the bed. He felt Mrs Hudson’s hand rub the back of his head in a comforting manner. “No dearie, I don’t suppose you will. A nice strong boy you are, you might be just the thing this place needs.”  
  
John didn’t feel like this place needed him. He didn’t feel like there was anywhere that needed him. Even Harriet, she had her own family now. She didn’t need him anymore.  
  
“I’ll fetch Molly and she’ll run you a bath. You have a good night now John and don’t worry, it’ll all look better in the morning, trust old Mrs Hudson.”  
  
But John didn’t get to wait until morning. He had been tossing and turning, sleeping fitfully, and his dreams were full of old corridors and musty smelling places, and he was looking for his mother only she was always just out of reach, her footsteps creaking on ancient wooden floorboards, when he suddenly realized he couldn’t breathe.  
  
John came awake with a feeling of panic and began struggling automatically, clawing at the hands covering his mouth and pinching his nose.  
  
A thin, white face loomed over him and a voice hissed, “Be quiet! They’ll all spying on me!”  
  
John could hardly make a noise when he couldn’t even breath and he twisted around in his blankets and kicked with his legs the creature made an winded _ooomph!_ and fell back. John sat up, coughing. Then the white face thing was up again, sitting on top of his legs and John acted instinctively, fist flailing out.  
  
He impacted something that felt like skin and bone and stopped. “Who are you?” He asked.  
  
The creature-boy-thing was cupping his cheek with a shocked expression. “You hit me! Nobody’s allowed to hit me.”  
  
“Well,” John blinked. He flexed his fingers. He had been told before that he was a strong boy and part of being strong was knowing the measure of your strength. “I nicked you. And you were trying to kill me.”  
  
The thing raised his head and rolled his eyes. The fire had gone out and in the dark he was hard to make him out but he was skinny and pale with a head of dark hair and looked rather like a spectre.  
  
“Of course I wasn’t trying to kill you, you idiot. If I wanted to kill you you’d be dead now. Are you a spy just like the rest of them? I haven’t seen you before.”  
  
“A spy? No I’m not.” John said. “And I haven’t seen you before either. Who are you?”  
  
“Who am I?” The creature looked affronted. _“Who am I?”_  
  
“Um,” John says. “You were saying be quiet just a minute ago.”  
  
The creature sat back on the bed. “Don’t you know who I am? Everybody knows who I am. I’m the most important person here.”    
  
“Well I don’t know who you are.” John said honestly. The creature narrowed his long, thin eyes. “I’m _Sherlock Holmes_.” He declared, in the same tone one might have said they were King Edward.  
  
“That’s an interesting name,” John said. “Wait did you say _Holmes?”_  
  
“What do you mean _interesting?_ ” The boy fixed him with a very pale gaze. “Do you mean, _queer?_ ”  
  
“It’s not that queer, believe me.” John said. “I used to know a boy back in India called Jambhala. Is Lady Holmes your mother?”  
  
“India, well that explains the accent. What’s your name?”  
  
“I don’t have an accent.” John said. “I’m John Watson. Lady Holmes is my Aunt only she said I can’t call her that. Are you my cousin? Why hasn’t anybody told me about you?”  
  
“They’re all spies that’s why!” Sherlock declared, sitting back on his hindquarters. He was wearing a long cream sack-like sleeping gown and his feet were bare. His legs were awfully skinny. He pressed his fingers together in a calculating manner. “Does your window open?”  
  
“I don’t know.” John said. The boy flew over to it and tried the hatch. It wouldn’t budge. “Drat.” He said.  
  
John wrapped his blankets around himself comfortably. “You can’t go out like that anyway. You’ll catch your death in the cold.”  
  
“Catch your death- catch your death!” The boy repeated with derision. “They’re all always saying I’m going to die.”  
  
“Well you look all right to me.” John couldn’t help it and yawned. The boy gave him a look dripping with derision. “Tired John? How dreadfully plebeian of you.”  
  
“Ah ha!” John said faintly. “You are definitely my cousin.” He settled himself in comfortably. “You should go back to your room wherever that is.”  
  
“My room. They’re always making me stay in my room. I’m sick of my room!” Sherlock suddenly leapt on his bed again and John grabbed his blankets before Sherlock could drag them off him. Even doused with the fog of half sleep he was stronger than Sherlock and had faster reflexes. Besides he’d played this game with Harry loads of times and had plenty of practice. Sherlock struggled a little in vain then gave up and said sulkily, “Stop that! I command you not to sleep.”    
  
John giggled “You’re funny. You can’t command someone not to sleep.”  
  
“I can and I do! I order you not to sleep!” Sherlock said. “You can’t defy my orders. I’ll fly into a rage and mother will have you beaten.”  
  
“Well she can beat me in the morning.” John said sleepily. “Good night Sherlock.” After dozing for a second, John cracked open an eye and saw him still sitting there, hair askew and eyes furious.  
  
“Oh all right then but keep your cold feet to yourself.” He lifted up his blanket. Sherlock looked at it suspiciously. “What are you doing?”  
  
“You’ll die of pneumonia if you keep on sitting there like that. Not to mention I can feel your eyes burning and I don’t want to have nightmares. Come on, if you don’t want to sleep in your room you can sleep here.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t budge. John signed. “Well suit yourself.” He closed his eyes again and next minute he felt the bed move and a cold, skinny, long thing, full of angles and bones, climbed in next to him. Sherlock lay straight and stiff like a board next to him, vibrating discomfort. John burrowed deeper into his blankets and decided to ignore him.  
  
“John.” Sherlock spoke just as he was about to drift off. “John I’m bored.”  
  
John sighed, then giggled as he remembered telling his Ayah just the same thing. Thinking of her brought back a rush of fond warm, tangy, spice-laden memories and he felt sorry for his odd thing in this gray and desolate place. “All right then, I’ll tell you a story.”  
  
“Don’t bother. I’ve heard most of them a hundred times. I have loads of books.”  
  
“Not this one you haven’t. I guarantee it. Now lie back and relax.” John rubbed his face sleepily. How did it begin? Ah yes. “Long ago in India there was a great Maharaja who ruled over a vast and peaceful land...”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much everyone for your comments and kudos :) I'm so glad that people are enjoying this story!

The next morning when John woke up Sherlock had gone. He half thought he might have dreamed up the other boy but there was note stuck by his pillow that said,  
  
 _If you’re really not a spy then don’t tell them you’ve seen me._  
 _That is an order._  
 _SH_  
  
He was just looking at the note when there was a knock on the door and Molly came in. He crumpled the note into his fist to hide it.  
  
“Oh you’re up!” Molly said, sounding pleased. “I’ve ever so relieved. It’s so difficult when you have to, um, well I’m ever so relieved!” She marched over to the other side of the room and  pulled back the heavy brocade curtains. There was a visible spray of dust that caught Molly by surprise and she leaned back, coughing and waving her hands rather awkwardly.  
  
She had laid down a set of clothes for him but found to her surprise that when she turned around he was standing by the foot of his bed, arms raised outwards and looking at her expectantly.  
  
“Oh are you wanting me to dress you?” Molly said. “Goodness me!” She began to laugh in a way that made her look very young and carefree but afterwards, she suddenly covered her mouth. The nervous look returned to her eyes. “Oh but I shouldn’t laugh. I’m not supposed to laugh. Her Ladyship wouldn’t like it.”  
  
“It’s quite all right.” John said. “Only I don’t know what’s so funny.”  
  
Molly knelt down and picked up John’s shirt. John had to coax it out of her but eventually she let on that her cousin Greg had learnt to dress himself when he was four years old. John was embarrassed to hear it and explained, “My Ayah dressed me all the time when I was in India. And she dressed Harry too and she’s a whole year older.”  
  
Molly smiled as she buttoned up his shirt and directed him to turn around so she could help into  the stiff shoulders of the suit jacket. “Although granted Greg’s clothes are much simpler. Suits and vests are not very practical when you’re walking around in mud and dirt all day.”  
  
“I should like to meet Greg.” John said.  
  
Molly’s nervous look returned. “Oh I don’t know about that Master John. Her Ladyship  wouldn’t like it.”  
  
“I don’t think she would mind. I don’t think she likes me very much.” John told her what had happened and Molly’s face took on a pitying expression. “Oh she doesn’t like anybody! One night I was cleaning the fireplace, I don’t normally do it, the scullery maids do that, but Betsy was sick and she asked me so I did, and anyway there I was scrubbing away and all of sudden I hear this voice behind me. She says, “Girl, it’s not cleaning if all you’re doing is getting dirt all over yourself. You might as well jump in and roll about like a dog, it will be similarly unprofitable.” I nearly jumped up into the roof! She was sitting there all this time, in the dark, right behind me. Oh!” Molly clapped her hand over her mouth again. “I shouldn’t have said that. Don’t tell anybody I told you that.”  
  
John laughed. He thought Molly was funny with the way she seemed to slip up all the time.  
  
“After breakfast I want to go outside.”  
  
“Well if you like.”  
  
“Will you come with me?”  
  
“Oh no I couldn’t possibly.” Molly looked wistful.  
  
“So I am to go on my own then?” It was a novel notion to John. In Calcutta he and Harriet had never been allowed anywhere on their own. His Ayah had cautioned him with dreadful tales of kidnapping and murder should he stray even an arms length away from her.  
  
John ate breakfast in an enormous dining room with no one else but a footman at the other end of the room for company, and then when he asked was directed to the great doors he remembered from the day before. Molly was there holding a newby cap for him which she fastened on his head and said, “There! Now you won’t get a cold.”  
  
“Thank awfully Molly!” John said.  
  
“If you go around that way you’ll see the gardens right away. They’re real pretty in summer time but alas it’s winter now and there’s not much to be seen. Still you might find something. Birds, butterflies, Greg’s always digging up things. And there’s a pond with fish and I don’t know, whatever else you find in a pond.”  
  
“Frogs I think.” John said thoughtfully. “I should like to see a frog.”  
  
Molly giggled. “Oh I almost forgot. There’s something you have to know. There’s a garden in particular that you can’t go into.”  
  
“Which garden? Why?” John was instantly full of curiosity. Like most boys once you told him he couldn’t do anything, it immediately became the most interesting thing in the world.  
  
Molly tilted her head, thinking about it. “You know I don’t really know. But Mrs Hudson said to make sure to tell you if you were going outside not to into _that_ garden. It’s the one that’s locked up. No one has been in it for ten years. Anyway off you go now. Make sure you’re back for luncheon.”  
  
She opened the door. John had a very serious look on his face as though he was about to embark on a grand adventure. To her amusement he then took a deep breath and plunged outside. Molly watched him go.  
  
Molly was the youngest maid in the house and that, combined with her almost desperate desire to please, meant she was lumped with most of the work nobody else wanted. All the servants were simple people, locals for the most part, and the Holmes children seemed queer and strange to them. Especially the younger one. The cook Mrs Turner often said she was convinced he was the devil in disguise, because it just weren’t natural the way he knew things. Most of the other servants agreed, although they thought that the mother, rather than the devil, might have more to with it. Lady Holmes terrified just about everybody except Mrs Hudson who’d come up with her from London. So when they’d heard that Lady Holmes had a nephew that that was coming to stay, no one had wanted anything to do with it. The task then had naturally fallen to Molly who had been dreading it something awful and it had kept her up at night with bouts of nervous anticipation. But now as she watched him running backwards, holding onto his hat with one small hand to keep the strong gales of wind from lifting it clean off his head, and waving at her cheerfully with the other, she thought maybe it would be all right after all.  
  
John for his part was also feeling more cheery. Mrs Hudson had been right. The sun was out, the mists had lifted and he could see wide rolling green plains all around him and they didn’t seem so foreboding as they had during the night time. Why, even the house didn’t look as gloomy but rather beautiful in a wild and antediluvian sort of way. It felt good to stretch his legs after being so cramped on ships, then trains and carriages. And he had made a friend already - at least he thought he had - and that was a good sign, wasn’t it?  
  
He wondered what Sherlock was doing right now. From what he had gathered, he seemed to spend an awful lot of time in his room. And why did he think everybody in the house was spying on him? It was all very, very odd and confusing to John’s young mind.  
  
He did a turn about the house to the gardens. He found the oak tree he’d seen previously and sat down on stone wall that had been built around it. There were a lot of scratches on the tree. Some of the scratches were words. One very large one simply said _NO_ , with sharp straight strokes. A few were names. _Alistair. Katherine. Siger._ He saw _Mycroft_ in very neat letters. There wasn’t any that said _Sherlock_ but the bark had been peeled off in a few places.  
  
After a quick furtive look around his shoulders, John climbed up the tree for a better look. He was a strong and agile boy and managed it easily enough. Up the top, near where the branches parted, he saw another name surrounded by shape of a flower with four petals. _Violet._ Just then a robin came and perched itself on the tree branch right above the name. It was a very handsome bird, rather round and fat with a vibrant orange chest. It made a rich warbling sound and fascinated, John pressed himself against the tree, stood on his toes, and reached out his hand. The robin immediately took off, relocating not too far away to the stone wall. John slid down the tree after it. After that it was off again, to another tree a little distance away. John stared at it and it stared back. It hopped to and fro, turned its back on him, flitted it’s tail, and then turned back around again.  
  
“I know what you’re doing,” John said. “You want me to follow you don’t you?”  
  
The robin twittered and John laughed out loud. What a funny bird it was, it was just like it could speak! He came closer and just as he was about to reach the tree, the robin took off again and they kept on on this way until they reached the far wall, which was covered with so much wild ivy which had almost completely drowned out the original stone work. The robin alighted on the wall and every time John came closer it would hop a few steps away.  
  
“My, that’s a pretty robin. I ain’t seen him around before. But you ain’t going to get him just following him about the place like that.”  
  
The voice startled John. He whirled around and saw a wiry, brown haired boy wearing a cap and overalls. He had a shovel in his hand and a pail in the other.  
  
“What should I do then?” John asked.  
  
“You know, you gotta coax him some. I’ll show you.” The boy set the pail on the floor, reached into the pocket of his mud-speckled overalls and pulled out some dried seeds. He set these on the floor and beckoned John away. Obligingly John retreated a few steps and the robin turned around to look at him, as if it were wondering where he was going.  
  
“You gotta make him come to you. Show him you’re no danger to him.” To John’s amazement the boy began making robin-like sounds, little trills that sounded quite real. As he did it he backed away and with his hand he motioned for John to do the same thing. They stood side by side, both not speaking a word for several long breathless moments until the robin flew down from the wall and began pecking at the seeds.  
  
John grinned like an idiot but the boy cautioned, “Wait a bit and then take a step closer. If he doesn’t move then you can keep going but if he’s had it then try again another day.”  
  
“I thought he was leading me somewhere.” John explained.  
  
“Well if he was then he wants you to get in trouble. Nobody’s allowed to go in there.”  
  
“What behind the wall?” But even as John said it he saw that above the verdant, evergreen ivy, were the tops of trees. He’d missed it because they were thin and bare, thin yellow branches with shorn leaves. “Is that the garden that nobody can go into?”  
  
“Aye,” the boy said. At the same time the robin flew back onto the wall and turned around again, looking at John as if to say, Are you coming? Then it flew off, somewhere beyond the wall to that forbidden garden that nobody had seen in ten years.  
  
“He’ll be back again.” The boy said, seeing his crestfallen expression. “You just keep leaving food there for him the same place every day and soon he’ll be eating out of your hand. He must like you though. I work in the gardens every day and I’ve ain’t never seen him before.”  
  
“I know who you are. You’re Gregory, Molly’s cousin.”  
  
“Aye that be me. I’m Gregory Lestrade, but my friends call me Greg. And you be Master John, the nephew of the fearsome Lady Holmes.”  
  
John laughed. “I think she’s fearsome too. And a little bit sad. Everybody seems frightened of her.”  
  
“Not me.” Greg boasted. “But then I don’t ever go in the house. I stay out here where things are peaceful and nobody wants to box my ears.”  
  
“Why’s the garden locked up?”  
  
Greg shrugged. He’d picked up his pail again and John followed him. “I dunno. Something to do with Lord Holmes I suppose. He died in there you know, under _queer_ circumstances.”

 “What was so queer about it?”  
  
“I don’t know but I heard the gardener Mr Monkford say so.” Greg looked up suddenly into the sky. “You’d best be going back. It’s luncheon time and they’re absolutely barmy about rules and meal times over there in the big house.”  
  
“Can I come again tomorrow? Suppose I bring a ball or something. Or help you out in the garden.”  
  
Greg took off his hat and scratched his head. “I’m not supposed to be talking with you. At least I don’t think so.”  
  
“Bit late now.” John pointed out. Greg grinned, looking abashed. “Somebody had to tell you about the bird. You could have been chasing it around all morning and how daft would you look then?”  
  
“Suppose I came over to talk to you instead of you talking to me.” John proposed thoughtfully. “It’ll be my fault then and nobody’ll blame you.”

Greg’s smile grew. “Well if you put it that way. There’s a clearing behind the big tree. It’s perfect for kicking a ball. By the way, do you know how to play cricket?”  
  
John was beaming by the time he returned to the house. He’d already decided what he was going to do in the afternoon which was write a letter to Harriet and let her know everything that had happened to him _. Dear Harry,_ it would start. _Pencarrow Hall is a very old house. It has lots of mysteries_ (he wasn’t sure how to spell that word). _Like a garden that nobody is allowed to go in. Apparently Lord Holmes - that’s my Uncle - died in there. Do you think it’s haunted?_ (Another word he didn’t know. But Harriet would know what he meant). _Lady Holmes - that’s my Aunt only she says I can’t call her that - doesn’t like me. She said I don’t look like father. She might have liked you more since you look like him. Anyway I’ve made two friends. I think that’s a pretty good effort in one day don’t you think? How many friends have you made?_  
  
Molly told him that she’d put lunch in his bedroom. “I thought you might like to eat there instead of in the big room.”  
  
He did indeed. He thanked her with a big smile, told her he remembered the way and ran eagerly to his room. He realized he was hungry indeed. He was looking forward to his lunch and eating it with a good book.  
  
Only when he opened the door to his room, Sherlock was sitting on his bed, eating his lunch.  
  
John shut the door quickly. “Sherlock! What are you doing here?”  
  
The boy narrowed his eyes at him. “Waiting for you of course. It’s very impolite of you to make me wait.”  
  
“I didn’t know you wanted me.” John said. “You’re getting crumbs all over my bed.”  
  
“Hmm.” Sherlock said in tone that clearly relegated John’s opinion to non importance. He picked up a handful of cream crackers with one hand and poked his fork through a sausage with the other.  
  
“Don’t they let you eat in here?” John asked, amazed.  
  
“Not this kind of food.” Sherlock mumbled through mouthfuls. “They told me I’ll die if I so much as touch anything that’s got salt in it.”  
  
John stared at him, pale-faced, for five terrible seconds before Sherlock lowered his fork and said acidly, “It’s not true of course. I’ve stolen food from the kitchen loads of times and I’m still here aren’t I? They’re always lying to me.”  
  
John wasn’t so sure. By night Sherlock had looked rather like a ghost, with all his dark hair and pale skin but he’d attributed all that to lack of sleep and horrid lighting. But now it was mid morning and the sun was bright, and Sherlock’s skin still had a waxy, almost transluscent, sheen about it that John had never before seen on any other living person.  
  
“So you’re not dying.” He asked, just to clarify.  
  
“Oh I’m dying all right.” Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact way as if he were reporting the weather. “But when I do, it’ll be from the shock, not _food._ ”  
  
“I’ve never heard of anybody dying from _shock_ before.” John interjected with rather a lot of skepticism. “Harry - that’s my sister - she used to jump out at me wearing these frightening tribal masks you can buy from the marketplace in Calcutta. If you could die from shock, I’d know.”  
  
“Yes I knew you had a sister.”  
  
“You mean you heard about it from Mrs Hudson?”  
  
“Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock repeated with great derision. “Of course not. I deduced it from the writing in some of your books. A child’s writing and definitely a girl’s.”  
  
“Now you’re just making that up.”  
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes dangerously. “You went into the gardens this morning am I correct? You picked some geraniums, climbed a tree and,” Sherlock leaned closer. “Talked to one of the gardeners.”  
  
John’s draw dropped open. “How did you know? Were you watching me?”  
  
“Of course not.” Sherlock sniffed. “I’m not allowed to open the curtains. Anyway my window faces the other side.”  
  
“How did you know then?”  
  
“Your hands - there’s pink residue on them. Geraniums are the only pink flowers in the gardens that still bloom in winter. And there’s mud on your sleeve. It hasn’t rained in two days so the moor should be dry. But there’d be mud if you’d been watering the flowers, and only the gardeners do that. And you have scratches on your boots from climbing the tree.” He said it all in one breath, as though he couldn’t wait to get it all out. Then he fell silent, fixing John with a pale, suspicious gaze, as though he were waiting for something. 

John was quite speechless. After a pause he said, “How do you know I didn’t just fall over?”  
  
“To cause the scratch at that angle, you’d have to have fallen forward. Naturally a person would put out their hands to break their fall and I don’t see any scratches on your arms or hands.”  
  
“That’s stupendous.” John said with frank admiration. “How clever of you!”  
  
Sherlock looked surprised. He looked down at his food, then up again. John thought that there was perhaps a little bit more colour on his face. “Do you really think so? That’s not what they normally say.”  
  
“Of course that’s the cleverest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.” John said honestly. “What do they normally say?”  
  
“Aren’t you just queer!” Sherlock imitated a high-pitched female voice. “You make me quite frightened! I don’t think it’s natural the way you know things. Just not natural!”  
  
John giggled. Sherlock sounded quite real.  “I tried to climb that big oak tree. I was trying to catch a robin. Do you know it led me straight to the secret garden. I think it really wanted me to follow it.”  
  
“What big oak tree?” Sherlock asked in a small, little voice. “What secret garden?”  
  
“The big oak tree in the garden of course.” John said. “It must be very old and important because they put up a ring of stones around it. I don’t think it did a bit of good though since everybody has their name on it. And I suppose the others don’t call it a secret garden. They probably just call it the locked garden. It’s the one nobody’s supposed to go into. It’s right behind the big oak tree. Only there’s lots of ivy covering it so it’s hard to see. You know what I’m talking about.”  
  
Sherlock’s face was red. Then it went white with dreadful little red spots. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said in a small and strangled voice, but which steadily built up in crescendo. “ _I don’t know about it - because I’ve never been outside!”_  
  
John opened his eyes wide. Of course! That’s why Sherlock’s name hadn’t been on the tree. He’d never been there to write it. A sudden rush of pity filled his kind, young heart and he would have said something but it was too late because Sherlock suddenly leapt up and ran out of the room, slamming the old, heavy door so hard it made a terrible loud noise like a crack of thunder.  
  
A few minutes later there was a rush of footsteps and John opened the door a crack and heard from the end of the corridor Molly say wildly, “What’s happened this time?” And Mrs Hudson said, “Never mind that just hold him so he doesn’t hurt himself again! And for goodness sakes, stay calm!” They were in such a hurry they didn’t notice him and he was able to follow them part ways until they disappeared into a door in the main wing of the house. He heard the sound of low, feverish cries and then the sound of glass breaking. Molly gave a little scream and Mrs Hudson said sharply, “Stop that girl!”  
  
John retraced his steps, went back into his room and closed his door again firmly. He was a sensible boy. There wasn’t any good getting in the middle of all that.  
  
 _Dear Harry,_ he revised the letter in his head. _I’ve made one friend today and lost another one. So not such a good day, probably._  
  
His stomach grumbled. Sherlock had eaten all his food. He would wait a while, until all the fuss died down, and then he would go and look for Mrs Hudson or Molly and ask for some paper so he could write to Harriet. And some more food.  
  
***  
  
That evening after Molly put him to bed, John waited until he heard her footsteps retreat and then put on his shoes and crept out into the corridor. He went to the room he remembered. The heavy door was shut but there was a little low light underneath the door frame. John pushed his shoulder into it - he pushed with all his might - and the door cracked open slightly.  
  
A suspicious voice immediately said, from somewhere high on up, “Who’s there?”  
  
“It’s me John.” John held up his lamp which he had been holding to light his way through the dark corridors. In his other hand he had a plate of cream crackers he’d begged from Molly.  
  
He saw that the room was very large, much larger than his. An enormous four poster bed was placed on a raised platform. The rest of the room was extremely cluttered, from wall to wall it was filled with desks and shelves of all different shapes and sizes. John saw hundreds of bottles and jars of all different shapes and sizes, pictures and clocks and lightbulbs, a miniature train set that looked like it was in the middle of being dissembled (or reassembled, it was difficult to distinguish), what John thought was probably an electro-static generator and a whole lot of other things he didn’t recognize. One whole wall was filled with books and even the ladder propped up against it had books on all it’s levels. Sherlock clearly had not been exaggerating when he said he spent a lot of time in his room.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock said, sulky-like, from the bed. John came around the room and took a good look at him. Sherlock was dressed all in white and he was so pale, and the curtains and drapes and sheets around his bed so voluminous that if not for the shock of his dark hair John might have quite lost him in amongst it all.  
  
“I came to see if you were feeling better.” John said. He put the lamp beside the bed, careful not to drop it, and sat down at the edge of the bed. He held out the plate to Sherlock.  
  
“If I scream Mrs Hudson will come and you will be whipped.” Sherlock said resentfully.  
  
“Then I’ll thank you not to scream.” John said, slightly taken aback. “I came to apologise. I didn’t know that you’re not allowed outside. I’m very sorry for you. I was about to say so before but you ran off before I could.”  
  
Sherlock’s face twisted into a sneer. “Sorry for me! You- sorry for me! You feel sorry for the poor  little Sherlock Holmes. The weeping child, weeping in vain, nobody wants him, can’t go outside, locked up his black coffin, doesn’t have a father, his mother can’t even bear to look at him, poor little Sherlock Holmes, he might as well be dead-”  
  
“All right, all right!” John saw it coming this time and leapt to stop it. “That’s enough from you! Shut up at once!’  
  
He said to so vehemently and with so much conviction that surprised, Sherlock actually obeyed. He froze with his mouth still open and John, rather red in the face himself, said lowly, “Just stop that. You’re not the only one that’s suffered you know. I lost both my parents. At least you've still got one of yours.”  
  
Sherlock closed his mouth.  
  
John continued, “Anyway if you scream again your mother will probably come and she won't just whip me, she'll probably just turn me out. Then I don’t know where I’ll go because nobody wants me. Not even my own mother. She didn’t even say good bye to me before she left.”  
  
There was a long silence. A normal person probably would have apologised or expressed sympathy but none of this ever occurred to Sherlock. Partly because he was a lonely and unhappy child who'd never had the chance, or inclination, to learn the proper conventions; and partly because he was also a very clever child and hence detested what he understood as being hollow platitudes. Lucky for him John didn’t seem to expect anything. Instead John sniffed, wiped his nose inelegantly, then said in a more normal tone of voice, “Anyway, why aren’t you allowed outside? And why do you keep saying you’re dying?”

“It’s my heart.” Sherlock responded after a pause. Surprise had softened his features slightly and he took a quick furtive look at John as if to make quite sure he was not about to have another outburst.  “They say it’s bad. If I get a terrible shock it might just stop. It’s what happened to my father. People say he got a scare one day and fell down stone cold dead. That’s why I can’t go outside and I can’t see anybody.”  
  
John was amazed. So there really were people that could die of a fright. “I guess that explains it. I asked Molly what the fuss before and went all red in the face and she stammered something about a chicken. Really I don’t think she’s very good at lying.”  
  
“Chicken.” Sherlock repeated blankly at first, and then with bewilderment. _“Chicken!”_  
  
And then looked at each other and both of them burst out laughing, Sherlock falling back against his great big pillows. Afterwards John slid the plate over again and grinning, Sherlock grabbed a handful, popping them in his mouth. His curls, rather wild and long, fell down and covered his cheeks. They had a little bit of a heightened colour in them. Not anger though, something different.  
  
“Anyway I’m sorry about your father. Greg said it happened in the secret garden.”  
  
Sherlock stopped with the food halfway to his mouth. He had cream on his upper lip and looked rather silly. John laughed at him until he realized that Sherlock wasn’t smiling anymore. “You didn’t know?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head again. “Whose Greg?”  
  
“He’s Molly’s cousin. He helps out in the garden. We’re going together tomorrow.”  
  
Sherlock chewed thoughtfully. He pushed the plate away. “My mother’s going away to London tomorrow. I know because she only ever comes to see me before she goes away. I pretended I was asleep and I think she knew but she didn’t say anything. Mycroft says she can’t bear to look at me because I look like my father.”  
  
“I’m sorry Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock shrugged. He said more quickly, “It doesn’t matter. Anyway I’ve got a plan, so listen closely. When she’s gone I shall command Mrs Hudson to bring you to me. She won’t dare disobey me for fear I’ll fly into a rage and die on the spot. Then you’re to take me there."

“Take you where?"  
  
"To see the oak tree. And the garden where my father died. And that is an order."

_Dear Harry,_ John thought. _Unfortunately,_ _I think I might have gotten myself into a spot of trouble._


End file.
